


Merry Ketchmas

by BrokenWings0712



Category: Supernatural
Genre: #Ketchmas, Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Christmas fic, Drinking, F/F, F/M, Ghosts of Christmas, Ketchmas, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 19:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenWings0712/pseuds/BrokenWings0712
Summary: Sometimes we build walls around our hearts. We shut everyone out and depend only on ourselves, but what if we didn't have to? What if Arthur Ketch learned to let people in, to let them nudge him in the right direction? What if he did something truly terrifying, worse than monsters and ghosts and demons and all the other stuff he fights? What if he visited a piece of his past he thought he'd left behind?My contribution to the #Ketchmas fic tag on Twitter. Because every donation helps us get one step closer to a cure.





	Merry Ketchmas

Seeking help wasn’t something Arthur Ketch was comfortable with—not even close. His time with the British Men of Letters had taught him to rely on no one but himself, despite the advantages of having a large organization at his back, because anyone could turn on you at any time if it served them well enough. No, he didn’t trust easily, and standing here on the other side of the Americans’ door was equal to licking the grimy tiled floors of a public restroom inside a subway station. 

How far he had fallen.

Stomping his feet to remove the remnants of the snow outside, Ketch raised his arm to knock on the door. He knocked three times and stuffed his hand back into the depths of his overcoat before waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting. 

After several minutes, Ketch doubled his efforts and pounded harder on the frost-covered metal. “Bloody Americans,” he muttered between chattering teeth. “Can’t even bother to answer the door in a timely manner. No wonder they almost end the world every few years.” No sooner had he gotten the words out than the door opened to a rosy-cheeked Dean complete with a glass in his hand. Loud music and warm light filtered out around him, but the elder Winchester sobered when he caught sight of the visitor. 

“Ketch? What’re you doing here?”

Nerves of steel and a disarming smile, Ketch reminded himself. “I do apologize for dropping by unannounced, but I appear to find myself in a bit of a jam and could use some assistance.” 

Dean furrowed his brow and blinked in response. “You do know it’s Christmas, right? What could you have possibly gotten yourself into?”

“Like I said, a jam.” He rubbed his hands together in an attempt to bring some feeling back into his fingers. “Perhaps we could chat inside for a bit?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean stepped back and gestured inside with his tumbler. “Just uh, you should know that no one here is thinking about work right now, but you’re welcome to stay. We can work out the details tomorrow after everyone recovers.”

“Recovers from what?”  
_____________

Christmas festivities weren’t something Arthur Ketch normally took part in. 

After Dean let him inside, he was met with a chorus of cheers and raised drinks. It seemed they were having a party, and Ketch recognized the heavy influence of alcohol in the eyes of those that suddenly surrounded him. Here were these battle-hardened hunters laughing and carrying on as if they hadn’t a care in the world. What was it, he wondered as Sam poured a scotch and pressed it into his hand with a smile, that allowed them to let go and relax? Didn’t they know there were monsters still out there? Didn’t they understand their work was never through?

“You should loosen up a bit.”

Looking to his left, Ketch saw that Charlie had sidled up next to him. “I beg your pardon?”

She nodded towards the crowd before bringing her eyes back to his. “Surely you’ve played ‘Spot the Difference’ before. What do you think is wrong with the picture you’re presenting over here by yourself, rich boy?”

Suddenly he was floundering. “I—I don’t know. I’m not sure what you mean.”

The redhead rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Everyone else is actively enjoying themselves, and you’re what? Over here impersonating a statue? It’s not exactly the epitome of socialization. It’s actually pretty off-putting. You need to get out there and converse with the common folk!” Her bright smile faltered. “You never know when it’ll be your last chance.”

“Converse?” Ketch raised his brows and stared at her. “I doubt anyone among them could hold an intelligent conversation right now. Besides, I don’t see you out there ‘getting down.’”

She gave him a wry smile. “That’s because I’m waiting.”

“On what?”

There was a knock at the top of the stairs, and they turned just as Dean let Rowena inside and gave her a hug.

“On that.” Charlie grinned, her eyes never leaving the witch’s form. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I find myself in need of another drink.”

Ketch frowned as Charlie poured a glass of dark red wine, but then realization hit him hard in the face when she passed it to Rowena and the two disappeared somewhere in the flurry of the festivities. So once again, Arthur Ketch found himself alone in a room close to bursting with people. 

Yip-ee.

He stood there a while longer, observing the partygoers, like the way the blonde policewoman and Dean kept interacting with one another—What was her name? Dana? No, Donna. Yes, that was it. She and the elder Winchester appeared to share more than laughs. There was the occasional smile that told of many an inside joke, an almost non-existent distance between them at all times, and a certain heat in their stares. It seemed Charlie wouldn’t be the only one with a bedmate that night. Still, they seemed in tune with one another the way only couples can be, and, Ketch supposed, he was happy for them. Things such as that aren’t found often if at all in this line of work.

Mary was playing hostess, keeping platters full of food and a seemingly endless supply of cold drinks coming from the kitchen. Bobby Singer was always close on her heels, always watching, always checking for signs of fatigue and if she needed anything, always being the attentive lover Ketch himself could never be.

He shook his head and took a long sip of the scotch. Not bad, he thought. He expected something younger from the hunters in front of him. Moving on.

Sam and the angel Castiel, along with the one and only Claire Novak, were seated at the large map table attempting to explain poker to the nephilim, Jack, who appeared to be increasingly confused by what they were telling him. Of course, one can only listen to so many people at once, and they all kept bursting into fits of laughter which couldn’t have helped the boy at all. Though he did look to be having just as much fun as they did, so perhaps it wasn’t all for naught. 

Just as his eyes drifted over to two young women browsing the library shelves, someone else nudged his shoulder. “Oh, excuse me, miss…?”

“Jody.” The woman smiled and stuck her hand out. “You don’t seem to be in much of the Christmas spirit, huh?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ketch admitted, shaking her proffered hand. “I’m—”

“Save it. I know exactly who you are.”

Well, then. 

“I find myself at a disadvantage.”

Jody chuckled, her dark eyes taking in the scene he himself had just been analyzing. “Don’t feel too bad, sparky. It’s my job to know those kinds of things. So, if you aren’t here to party,” she asked, eyes suddenly probing his, “why did you show up?”

“I needed help,” Ketch admitted.

“With?”

“A job, but I failed to realize there would be so much going on when I arrived.”

“You mean to tell me the infamous Arthur Ketch didn’t have somewhere else to be on Christmas Eve?” 

Something in her voice was gently reminding him of his “somewhere else.” Of course he had a place to be. It wasn’t on American shores, and it wasn’t in a room full of boisterous drunks, nor was it in bed with a beautiful woman. But he couldn’t go back there. Not now, not ever. That’s why he always worked on the holidays. He had to keep himself busy so as not to get distracted by thoughts of—

“Look, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” Jody placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, “but if you need someone to talk to, give me a call, huh?” 

He took the business card she now extended and nodded, though he had no intention of following through. “Thank you.”

Two more drinks, and he still can’t get her out of his mind.

Whilst pouring his third—or was it fourth? Whatever. Who cared at that point, right? Whilst pouring his next—much better—drink, a quick hand swiped his glass away just as he was putting the bottle down.

Big mistake.

“I beg your pardon!” Ketch blinked back the rage as Claire tipped back his drink and swallowed it in one go. 

“Keep begging, rich boy. It’s not gonna bring the alcohol back.”

“I see your manners are no better than the rest of these heathens.”

“And I see yours don’t fade the drunker you get,” she countered. “Does that grooming ever wear off?”

He could feel himself bristling. “No.”

Claire leaned against the table and crossed her arms while looking him up and down. She raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “You don’t look like you’re having a good time. What’s the matter? Our drinks not up to your standards?”

“They’ll do well enough,” Ketch grumbled going for another glass and getting blocked by the girl yet again. He huffed and glared at her. “What is your problem? Can a man not drink with you around?”

Claire met his stare coolly. “Not when he’s just trying to drown his sorrows. That’s dangerous, you know.”

“And what do you know about my sorrows? Perhaps I’m simply trying to churn up a bit of holiday cheer.”

“Look, Ketch, I know we don’t know each other, but,” she looked down and lowered her voice so that he could barely hear it over the party’s din, “I know that look. I used to wear it myself. You still have someone out there somewhere, but you feel like you can’t…like you can’t let them in your life for some reason. Maybe it’s because you think you’re protecting them from this life or yourself from getting hurt, but it’s not okay. You have to give yourself permission to make it work, to be happy. If you do, the future becomes a little less complicated.”

When Claire looked up, there was something old in her eyes. Ketch had seen that look all too often, but never on someone her age before. The girl knew what she was talking about, and he knew well enough to know when to trust someone. His next words came out in a rush, and he honestly felt a little breathless. “What do I do?”

“Go to them.”  
_____________

Arthur Ketch had never been the type to catch a red-eye flight for anything other than a job, and he certainly didn’t make a habit of visiting this place, not in years, but there he was, once again looking up at the antique brick walls of the place that housed the only family he had left.

When he’d fallen in with the British Men of Letters, Arthur Ketch had taken the necessary precautions to ensure her safety because he knew she couldn’t do it herself. She wouldn’t understand why he never visited anymore, but she’d forget eventually. From what he had heard, she’d asked for him constantly at first, but then constantly turned to occasionally, and occasionally slowly became never. It was difficult to resign himself to wiring money for her bills and checking in with the staff via email, but again, it was necessary. He couldn’t take a chance that someone—or thing—would find out about her and seek to use her against him. He wouldn’t.

She probably wouldn’t even recognize him anymore.

Glancing over his shoulder with a well-trained eye seeking out a potential tail, Ketch took to the snow-covered steps and pushed open the door. He removed his hat and gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket before making his way down the hall towards the nurses’ desk. A lone worker sat filing paperwork, and he nodded as he passed but didn’t stop. He knew exactly where he was going.

Not much had changed in the facility since the last time he’d visited, but then Ketch knew how important a routine and consistency was in caring for these patients. He had struggled with that when she first fell ill and their roles reversed, but caretaking came naturally to him back then, and he adjusted quickly to her needs. Then she began requiring more and more of his time, and Ketch knew he had to find a solution to their mounting financial issues, and then came the opportunity of a lifetime. Nothing was quite as painful as leaving her, but signing his life away was easier knowing doing so enabled her to live the life she deserved. 

Ketch hesitated just outside her door, nerves getting the better of him for the first time in years. On the other side of that heavy wood was the woman who had taken him in and raised him as her own after his parents died. She was the woman who put aside her needs so that he never knew what want meant. She put him through the best schools and into the best clothes on a seamstress’s wage, and she never once complained about it. She wore motherhood as a badge of honor and dared anyone to challenge her ability to watch over him. She was fierce, strong, a force to be reckoned with, but she was also gentle, and loving, and soft.

And then Alzheimer’s Disease stripped her bare.

Arthur Ketch rapped gently on the wood and stepped inside. The woman sitting there looked nothing like the one he grew up with. Her limbs were shriveled and frail, her silver hair swept back into a twist at the back of her head, and confusion blurred the once crystal-clear blue of her eyes. He smiled at her and felt his heart stutter as a flash of recognition swept across her face.

“Hello, Grandmother.”

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Charlie is the Ghost of Christmas Past, Jody is Present, and Claire is Future because of the things they talk about. Hopefully I wrote it in a way that made that apparent.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
